faderift | CLOSED: a prayer that will be answered

Her eyes narrow slightly- but it does not seem as though he is mocking her.

But then she does not know him and cannot read him. Yet. There will be time to learn his sincerity from his sarcasm, time to sort out if she is right to be so wary on her friend's behalf. "While I am quite fond of blue- I do not care to spend my days fighting darkspawn. I am a healer first."

And a politician, and a noble finding her feet in the Game and- Warden would not suit.

He's delicate, after a fashion, and some of the tension at being held eases. "I would rather strangle him but I understand we need him alive for this venture."

"I've been told it brings out my eyes," he agrees, as he starts to make his way up the slope. "Max, keep an eye on things back there, will you?" Whether he's referring to Alistair or darkspawn is up for conjecture, really.

"And if Alistair does wind up strangled, you can heal him. Seems like a win-win scenario. Unless you're Alistair, of course."

"A warden with an eye for fashion." She murmurs in her driest voice, attempting to regain some manner of dignity whilst being carried.

"Considering his peculiarities he might very well enjoy such treatment." He is, after all, a terribly strange and contrary fellow.

"I know. Next nugs will fly." Still, he offers her a wry smile as he continues, carefully judging which way he'll go to cause her the least jostling and him the least chance of slipping.

And a laugh. "Very Orlesian of you, Councillor." The judgement, he means. And the condescension.

"A shame we won't be able to see it, down here." Lost in the deep roads they will miss much- but they are not lost.

She must keep that in mind. Not lost. Traveling.

"How Fereldan of you to find his antics charming." They aren't charming. They're vexing.

"Think of what you're seeing that most people won't. Lost dwarven thaigs aren't something to sniff at, even if they don't have a strict dress code." If it weren't such a whimsical notion, that bit about missing things on the surface might have stung.

"He's a good man. That's more than can said for most." And then, quietly, "Never quite know when he needs to be told to shut up or to keep going because he's onto something, but he's a good man."

"It is fascinating, if not for the Darkspawn infestation." That is less fascinating and more horrifying. To think that the Hero of Fereldan traveled through such tunnels during his quest to end the Blight. It does make her wonder, slightly, how Alistair managed to not get himself killed.

Perhaps he wasn't entirely useless with a sword. Probably.

"I suppose he is that." It is a point she could concede. "A vexing man but...a good one."

"Lava, ancient thaigs, unholy creatures fit for corrupting the world-- a home away from home." Light, easy, and he warns her for a little steep patch he has to navigate over, he'll try not to jar her, and sorted.

Hercules chuckles. "I promise not to tell him you said that."

"Throw in a few masks and a four string quartet and I would swear I was in Val Royeaux." Which only she, as the token Orlesian, is permitted to mock in such a fashion. Anyone else would be glowered at until they apologized.

"Good. If you did, I would have to strangle you instead, and then what am I to tell Benevenuta?" Poking at that connection, just to see how he reacts.

"Pretty sure this place is a bit more welcoming than Val Royeaux." Sidelong, waiting for the glower, honestly, though the teasing is well meant. "Pastries down here aren't as good, though. You ever had those ones with the fresh cream and blueberries in 'em?"

Listen, okay, he is a Warden, not a savage. He likes pastries.

His reaction? A smile. "She'd probably agree I deserved it. Benuta's a very practical lady."

Who is she to deny him that which he wants? Her eyes narrow and chill considerably, lips thinning with displeasure. Whether or not he is mocking or teasing she cannot quite place but-

Pastries are safe enough. "Yes. They are adequate, as far as pastries go."

They are delicious but she is not about to admit as such to him.

"To a fault, one might think. Which leaves one to wonder." What a practical woman like her sees in a massive complication like Herc.

"'Adequate'?" Now he's giving her a look. "What kind of Orlesian are you? They're what made that bloody empire of yours great."

Good natured, but really, now. A quiet mutter; "Adequate. You sound like Asher."

Hercules, for his part, doesn't bother holding back a smile when it comes to Benuta. "Oh? About what?" He knows exactly about what, but if she's going to talk about it, she can say it.

"One that has high standards for pastry." Higher than Herc's- that much goes unsaid, though her faint sniff of disdain might say it for her. "The muddy Avaar?"

With his dog and his...beard. She does not know much of him, to be honest.

"Why she keeps your company. I assume it is out of some manner of affection." Or lust, but she would have thought Benevenuta to think with more care of such things.

"Pastries," he starts, with Some Authority, "are an under-appreciated art. But nothing's better than the blueberry ones from this little place in Val Royeaux. I had to travel through there one time for an assignment. Volunteered for every damn trip to Val Royeaux after that that I could," he admits, finished with a rough laugh.

"And yeah. He thinks pastries are 'adequate,' too. I think his vocabulary's a shade more colourful than yours."

A shake of his head, and excuse him, he's just going to take a moment to get over a particularly steep stretch of path before he continues, breezily casual, "You might be right. Never figured it was much of anyone else's business, truth be told. Benuta's choices are her own."

"I do not know if I should feel better or worse for agreeing with him." Agree with the Fereldan, or agree with the Avaar. Damned either way, honestly. "I suppose he says something along the lines of them being a piss poor substitute for real pastry?"

He seemed the sort. There may or may not be a 'fuck' thrown in there as well. Possibly.

He continues their trip with care, does Herc, and Adelaide does find her estimation of him...shifting, a touch. Not much. But a little. "Considering the reputation and rumored end of most Wardens I am allowed my concerns on her behalf."

"More along the lines of whining about them giving him heartburn," Herc replies. "Don't tell him I told you that. Pretend I said it's because you can't use pastries to kill a man."

A quiet laugh and a significant look.

"Considering the reputation and rumoured ends of most Orlesians," he replies, "I might be allowed concerns about your relationship with her."

"I am not 'most Orlesians'." For one. "I suppose this is where you say 'I am not most Wardens' and we continue along with some sort of vague, begrudging mutual resentment or respect?"

Perhaps they could skip that.

"I suppose any warning about causing her pain is also moot as she is more than capable of handling such things on her own." Without Adelaide needing to lift a finger.

CLOSED: a prayer that will be answered

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